Josh and I often marvel at the wonder of how good our bed feels. It’s not a special bed. We don’t have fancy sheets or expensive pillows. But climbing in after Josh’s busy shifts is one of his favorite things in life. For me, it’s watching him wind down and become downright giddy about the escape he’s about to make from the toughness of the day (or night). Hard work and exhaustion look good on a man. And I think we are both in one of our most content moments when we are together on the brink of sleep.
It also makes me feel like the wealthiest of people. So much comfort and happiness must only be for gods and kings. And in this modern world where I’m well-fed and educated and own property and pets and have the love of my children, I’m aware of the golden age I’m in.
You know what else makes me feel like that? Reading! I’ve missed it so much. This weekend I’ve read two books, critiqued a short story, and begun critiquing a novel for a critique-mate. It’s the most sustained reading I’ve done since surgery, and I’m not without the weirdest little zips and zaps of nerve pain in my head. (Not my face, though. It remains pain-free!) But, the point is, I feel back to my reading self. I can hole away for three days and quench my thirst for reading. I’m trying to pinpoint the satisfaction of it. What is it that is so sweet? I think it has something to do with how I daydream. I don’t know about you, but when I daydream, it tends to be a mishmash of images and memories–frustrations and delights strung together in the most random of ways. But fiction focuses my imagination, and my daydreams and imaginings as I go along become a full organized worlds of wonder, beauty, heartache, and hope. And when I’m done with a book, I feel that same feeling as getting into my bed. I am part of something little and perfect in a world that is better than it has ever been before.